OPEN POST: The Moonlight Manor Series: The Feast of Shadows

 

It began in the fields when the year was dying. The Celts called it Samhain—a night when the border between worlds turned porous as breath. Fires burned on the hills; the living disguised themselves to fool the dead, who wandered freely, homesick for warmth. Cattle were slaughtered, hearths were blessed, and every shadow felt personal. It was the year folding itself shut.

Centuries later, the Church pressed its seal upon the fire. All Hallows’ Eve, they called it, the eve of saints and souls. But the fire would not behave. It danced in doorways and behind church glass, wild as memory. The saints stayed in their windows; the ghosts stayed in the streets.

Years passed, and the night put on different masks. Lanterns carved from turnips. Apples bobbing in water. Faces painted white. It crossed oceans, found new soil, learned new songs. The fields became suburbs. The bonfires became doorbells. The disguises, more flattering. But the impulse—the small, lovely terror of being seen and not seen—remained.

Now, each October, we light our small electric candles and pretend it’s only play. We open the door to strangers, offer sugar to ward off mischief, and laugh into the dark like it’s still afraid of us. The air hums with old permissions. A chill walks the skin, and for a moment, the centuries collapse—the same night, the same hunger, dressed in plastic and grace.

So come in. Lay down your mask, or put on another if you prefer. The night doesn’t care who you are, only that you arrived. The fire is still burning somewhere, stubborn as desire. The veil has thinned again, and the dead—like the living—are simply looking for company.

What does Halloween mean to you?

What’s your oldest memory of it—your first costume, your first real scare?

Do you still dress up? Do you still believe the night has a pulse of its own?

Tell us your stories. The porch light is on.

photos: Kenneth Sorenson, Colton Sturgeon, Lynwood Newspaper, 1928 Bay City, Michigan Newspaper